


your hair is so soft...for a scouser

by blindbatalex



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hehehe, M/M, Michael Owen - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Robbie Fowler - Freeform, You Have Been Warned, a little bit of internalized homophobia a little ahead too, also, also beware the cheesy jokes, also make appereances, also with the exact date of manager firings carra's debut etc too, and, and also, and the new manager has ideas, anyway too many tags, forced room sharing, hope you enjoy!, i didnt think so when i was writing and so now, i fudged up the dates...because february 1999 comes before september 1999 doesnt it, kinda graphic descriptions of minor injuries at the very end, there is a new manager, there will be, they are generally at the right time but dont look too close?, vintage nt carraville, we are taking the september 1999 northwest derby and moving it to september 1998
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: The England National Team has a new manager, and the new manager has ideas --as all new managers do-- that will definitely surely absolutely turn the team around this time and do it for good. Except this time the idea revolves around encouraging teammates to bond through not-so-random rooming assignments.Otherwise known as, is this Soviet Russia why am I being made to share quarters with a bloody Scouser I will have none of it AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by (1) the 'your hair is so soft' prompt an anon sent me last week on tumblr, (2) our discussions with mm_nani about how there should be more vintage NT Carraville and (3) [this article](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-2028286/Gary-Neville-England-players-terrified-live-fear-failure.html) by Gaz. There is a lot here from that article to be honest, including but not limited to Eileen the faith healer.
> 
> Mostly fluff and crack -- just you wait for the your hair is so soft part!!! -- but some angst and homophobia crept up into the later parts and since this is set in February 1999 there is also the aftermath of that red card in 1998. I have most of the story written and will update as I go through and clean it up.

There is a new manager in town and they are all terrified. They can’t not win the qualifiers but also no one knows too much about the man, about what outrageous new ideas and formations he might spring on them with only three days of training between now and the first game and it’s terrifying. Every new England manager after all seems to come in with ‘a brand new way of thinking’ that will be what finally turns things around and takes the team to a major trophy, and Gary wonders whether this is the time someone finally tries to play him as a striker. It wouldn’t be the craziest thing to have happened.

“At least you won’t get a lecture about how Eileen the healer’s energy would have helped with your muscle cramps,” David says with a grin as they pull up at the parking lot. Behind the jokes, the easy smile and the golden hair that falls into his eyes Gary can see the unease, the dread. Even now, months after. 

_At least you won’t have to deal with a coach who threw you to the wolves without a second’s thought._

Just thinking about the incident makes Gary’s blood boil. One mistake and people who haven’t kicked a ball in their life, who have no idea of the responsibility and the burden you carry when you step on the pitch and how moments measured in fractions of seconds can make or break games, declare themselves the highest jury and see it as their right to rage and to spit and send death threats. Condemn you because you are a United player and too damn good and the envy of every other club in the country.

One country one team his ass.

At least the first game is away and Hungarian fans will probably be kinder to them than their own, if only because Gary has no idea what chants they are hurling in their direction.

There is a buzz inside the hall with players congregated around the announcement board, talking in loud voices and with wide hand gestures. Gary and David instinctively make their way towards the crowd to see what the big deal is just as Paul notices them and turns around. His frown is too deep even by Paul Scholes standards.

“Have you heard?” he says eloquently.

Gary feels unease pool in his stomach as he prepares himself for whatever it is the new manager decided is going to lift the team up.

“Elieen the healer is back isn’t she and this time it’s mandatory,” David ventures but his grin doesn’t reach his eyes. Gary wants to hug David or punch something or both.

“Worse.”

Paul keeps talking but Gary gets distracted when he catches that Liverpool defender, Carragher, giving them a look from the other edge of the crowd. There. Gary could hug David and punch Carragher and it would be perfect. He scowls right back at the Scouser, making his intentions clear, until the man looks away. The audacity of some people.

“You can’t be serious.”

Gary’s attention whips back to his friends, and especially to David’s drawn face. “What is it?” he asks, quite annoyed at having missed the most important part of the conversation thanks to a bloody--

“David’s rooming with Southgate,” Paul repeats with a frown. “I’m rooming with Incey. The moment we land in Hungary the gaffer is making us room with ‘players we don’t normally have a lot of opportunity to socialize with’ so that we can _bond_ as a team.”

Shit.

That sounds worse than any brilliant national team idea Gary’s heard in the past year and that’s when Hoddle used to make the staff walk anti-clockwise during games to channel positive energy. No wonder Paul looks ready to murder someone.

Then again, perhaps humor is the best, if not the only, way to deal with the national team.

With that in mind Gary allows his face to relax into what could be described as a shit-eating grin. “So you and Incey,” he says slowly, savoring the words, “don’t know if Sir Alex will take you back when you come home singing You’ll Never Walk Alone. Or maybe he will only for you to hand in a transfer request. He used to play for us too, you know, once upon a time.”

Paul as it turns out is in no mood to joke. Gary doesn’t know how it’s physically possible but his frown somehow deepens further as he walks away with an exasperated huff. 

“I’d go easy on the jokes until I took a look at the board for myself if I were you, mate,” Phil says with a smirk -- where on earth did Phil come from? -- before he disappears after Paul too.

*

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Gary runs his finger over the writing on the paper to see if it will make the black ink rearrange into something a little less outrageous. It doesn’t. When Gary removes his finger the paper still reads ‘Gary Neville - Jamie Carragher.’ David, having overcome his surprise at finding out about his own assigned roommate, snickers next to him. 

“What’s that Gary, are you afraid you’ll come home singing You’ll Never Walk Alone? I’m sure the gaffer would understand.”

Gary glowers at him. Humor suddenly doesn’t feel like an appropriate response to the situation at all.

He doesn’t know this Carragher guy well, if at all; he is young, uncapped internationally and Gary only trained with him a couple of times when the other man first got called up to the squad. He does know however that Carragher is a born and bred Scouser and that means he and Gary belong in different worlds. Or rather, in a world where they say hi to each other in national camp, shout ‘I’m free’ or ‘cover the back’ during international fixtures and go back to a healthy amount of dislike and distrust the moment club football starts back up again. 

People say men liking men is unnatural, but if you ask Gary even the most religious and the morally stuck up must admit that some gay action is not even halfway as unnatural as making a Scouse defender and a Manc defender room together and expect them to ‘socialize.’

He closes his eyes, counts to ten and wonders whether it would actually be that bad if he punched his roommate, got expelled from the NT and never had to deal with this bullshit again. 

Next to him David has already started humming to the bloody Scouse song.

*

“Alright,” Gary says as he opens the door to the room he is being made to share with a Scouser for the next four days, “we are two civil men. I don’t like you. You don’t like me and this rooming situation is far from ideal for either of us but it will have to do.” 

He’s calmed down remarkably on the plane ride over, aided by the leg David pressed firmly against his and the point he made about Carragher’s goalscoring record. 

_Hey, don’t be so harsh on him Gaz, the guy basically won us the derby back in September._

Carragher nods, evidently just as displeased with the arrangement as Gary is. “As long as you don’t snore.”

Gary makes an indignant noise. Of course he doesn’t snore.

The room, and the hotel in general, is nothing to write home about with aging furniture and walls that are way too thin. The chatter from teammates moving into their own rooms filters in as muffled sounds. Gary takes some comfort in knowing that one of those voices is probably David’s who thankfully is set up in the room next door.

Gary drops his bags next to the bed by the window with an authoritative thud to claim it for himself. He is the more senior here and Carragher can fight him for it if he wants to. Carragher for his part simply sets his bags by the other bed and after giving the room a cursory one over starts to rummage in his suitcase for clothes. 

Between training and dinners the time they spend in the room should be quite limited anyways. Gary never one to be caught unprepared has also brought his eye mask and ear plugs. He can do this.


	2. Chapter 2

“What is this, Soviet Russia?” Gary says over a piece of perfectly bland chicken. Thankfully the new boss hasn’t started making them ‘socialize’ with the Scousers over dinner yet. “I don’t get what the big deal is. We communicate plenty on the pitch. What, I share a room with Jamie bloody Carragher for two days and suddenly we are linking arms and singing songs of peace?”

His brother’s grin is far too smug. “Don’t know Gaz. Sounded like you liked the idea when Scholesy first told you.”

Next to him Paul nods and Gary can basically taste the Schadenfreude his friend is sending in his direction in waves. 

“I’m telling you,” he says, unbothered “next thing you know there is a seating chart for meals and we are all calling each other comrade.”

“I can call you comrade Gaz in the post-game interview and see how that flies with the press. It kind of has a nice ring to it.”

“I’m sure the Mail would love that. Manchester’s Red Army Turns the National Team Red.”

“--and we are now behind the former Iron Curtain, so”

“--Communism Not a Solution to National Team Woes--”

Both David and Phil are hopeless and Paul is too busy enjoying this as his revenge from earlier to come to his defense. Gary grits his teeth and decides to attack the potatoes next. At least bland as they are the potatoes won’t betray him like his friends.

*

It’s late when he returns to the room. Most of the lights are turned off and Carragher is lounging on his bed bathed in the green blue light of the TV. The TV that seems to be playing a rerun of a Hungarian football game. 

Gary is determined to cross over to his own bed and go to sleep without saying anything beyond good night.

Who watches the rerun of a game with two teams Gary hasn’t even heard of and looks so interested when it’s 0-0 at the 65th minute though?

Gary won’t say anything. He will just go--

“Exciting game, is it?” 

Carragher looks up from the TV and scowls at the intrusion. 

Gary curses to himself. Damn him and his big mouth.

“There are national team players in both teams. It’s called research.” Carragher sounds cold and unimpressed, and looks Gary dead in the eye until Gary moves over to his bed with a huff and a ‘was just trying to be civil.’

Suddenly seeing a faith healer to help with muscle cramps seems infinitely more attractive.

*

Another issue presents itself the next morning when Gary wakes up to a mostly naked Carragher strutting out of the bathroom with only a small towel wrapped around his waist. Small droplets of water hang to his pale skin and his slim but toned upper body (and by God, those _thighs_ ) looks effortless and lovely in the morning light. Imperfect, with the scars that run on his abdomen and the too lanky arms, but all the more real and beautiful for it. Gary squirms and almost falls out of his bed at the sight.

Shit.

It’s one thing to keep the gay under control in the dressing room or on the pitch -- never stare too long, change quickly and hide under the shield that everyone hugs and slings arms around each other in football, but it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to take every step with the knowledge that let your eyes stay on someone’s six packs for too long and you are out -- to wonder in each physical touch, in each hug whether it’s too tight or too much. And it’s unbearable almost, to come to your room at the end of the day or wake up in a hotel bed and have that thought be the last thing you fall asleep with and the first thing you wake up to.

When he rooms with David Gary doesn’t have to worry about that last bit at least. David knows, and he knows too that Gary’s always had a bit of a crush on him, and still slips into Gary’s bed and wraps a protective arm around him before important games. He jokes about how handsome he is when he catches Gary looking. For years now Gary’s never had to worry whether any hug with David went on for too long and he feels beyond grateful that this man, pretty and straight as he is lets Gary be who he is. 

That, he supposes, is also why he is totally out of practice in terms of keeping the gay under control in the morning before tea and this Carragher is no David. 

No one is in football.

He can feel himself turn beet red. For his part Carragher narrows his eyes and his mouth sets into a thin line before he picks up his clothes and strides back to the bathroom to change, offended.

Shit.

Gary draws the covers over his head and hopes they muffle his groan. Given the standards in this hotel they probably don’t.


	3. Chapter 3

Training goes well and moving his whole body with purpose helps clear Gary’s head as it always does. He whisper-tells his story from the morning to Paul and David when he gets catches them alone during a break in the afternoon. They both laugh and Gary can’t help but laugh with them too.

“Oi, don’t you go falling for the enemy” Paul warns with a grin and David points out that of all the inappropriate people he could have the hots for Carragher isn’t even that pretty.

“It’s not _that_ ” Gary retorts, his face still buried in David’s shoulder in embarrassment and self-pity, “The boss could have come out of the shower and it would be the same. I’m not used to seeing half-naked men first thing in the morning --well except for you two but that doesn’t count -- and it’s been too long since I had...some action, you know?”

“I don’t count but Carragher--no _the boss_ does?” David has his hand on his hips and sounds offended.

“Ew, Gaz, that’s not an image I ever wanted in me head.” Scholes adds in.

Gary leaves the warmth of David’s shoulder and looks up. “Okay, maybe not the boss. But say, Keano.”

“Victoria has a gay cousin twice removed,” David says, “he is coming over for dinner in two weeks. Definitely better looking than Keano. Or Carragher for that matter; you should come.”

The one downside to having two of his best mates be super gay-friendly is that they both seem to be constantly trying to set Gary up. Gary has no idea how between the two of them they know half the non-straight male population of Manchester, and it doesn’t help when they rope Phil and Tracey into their plans too. Though his all-time favorite is that one time Paul had waited to call a handyman to fix his clogged faucet until Gary was over and then said _this is John Gary, isn’t he handsome_? 

Gary shakes his head. “Yeah, maybe.” Hopefully he can come up with a more suitable excuse closer to the event. He definitely walked into this one by admitting to his dry streak.

His friends mean well and now that he is established in the first team Gary wants to date too. But it’s just...hard you know? To have to worry about whether the man you are flirting with will run to the papers the next morning when you already have things that matter to worry over. 

Football. 

United. 

Gary would die before he jeopardized his shirt at the Old Trafford dressing room over _a nice fuck and some hand-holding._

Carragher though.

Maybe it is his dry streak, or his dick is into the whole opposites attract thing but Carragher with his short hair and the cheekbones and the way he somehow looks older than his years while also looking impossibly young--

Well. They are not going that route.

Victoria has a gay cousin twice removed.

*

Gary crashes early that night. He’s gone extra hard in training and his body is feeling the effects. Carragher follows soon afterwards and only does a partially successful job of hiding his grimace when he sees Gary.

The bloody, homophobic Scouser.

Gary pretends not to notice how he changes in the bathroom. It’s probably better this way anyway. Gary pulls out his Walkman and puts in a Stone Roses album. He’s lying with his back turned, eye mask and headphones on and only barely hears Carragher come out of the bathroom.

When he stirs out of his near sleep to take off his headphones and takes a peek, the TV is on a football game again, and Carragher is watching with interest. Once again Gary pretends not to notice how he turned off the lights and muted the sound.

For him.

Someone should tell Carragher to pick a side, Gary decides, just before he falls asleep. Either be the asshole who freaks out at the smallest reaction or the boy who turns off the lights and mutes the sound even though he isn’t going to bed anytime soon so that his Manc roommate can sleep in peace. 

*

Also, there is no denying that a part of Gary has always wondered what Scousers are like, even though he’d never admit it out loud.

The two cities are quite similar in theory, and however much he’d begrudge it Gary would take a hard working city of the North like Liverpool over London any day of the week. 

However, football takes up 90 percent of Gary’s waking hours and what little time is left he spends with family or his mates from the team. As a result he hasn’t talked to a born and bred Scouser for more than ten minutes since he was at least fifteen. He has most certainly never roomed with one. 

So as they settle into their temporary arrangement Gary finds himself paying attention. 

_And it’s definitely not because Carragher is cute. He isn’t._

He half expects Carragher to casually break into YNWA, (the Liverpool fans in his primary school could never stop singing the damn song, and it’s what Scousers do isn’t it) or start making Scouse in the small electric stove they have in the room. 

Carragher never sings YNWA but Gary finds that he does butcher Beatles songs quite a bit in the shower. And the most Carragher uses the stove for is when he comes back to the room with a proper old fashioned kettle and a teapot and starts to boil water to make tea. 

Gary’s ears perk up with interest. He loves some well-made tea, and the hotel of course has bloody stoves in the rooms (isn’t that a fire hazard?) but nothing other than stale Lipton tea bags in the cafe. On the other hand he’ll be damned before he begs any Scouser -- and especially Carragher -- to bestow him with a cup tea.

“You give me funny looks for bringing my own Weetabix but it’s fine when you find an entire tea set is it?” he says instead, from where he is watching from his bed. Twice in a row now Carragher’s pulled a face, as though he is either having an aneurism or barely keeping himself from laughing, when he saw Gary measure out the perfect amount of cereal into his bowl in the room in the morning. Gary has half a mind that he would have laughed or said something had Gary not fixed him with his best ‘you wanna fight I’ll fight’ stare.

“Mate, tea is our national beverage. Cereal is cereal. Bowls are definitely bowls. Same anywhere.”

“No it isn’t. I’ll point out that there is no Weetabix in this hotel but there is definitely tea.”

The wrong kind of tea, of course, because apparently the FA can’t afford to get its national team proper food and drinks or set them up somewhere where the walls aren’t made of paper, but Carragher doesn’t need to know that.

“I have just -- never seen anyone so passionate about cereal before,’ Carragher says with a snort, mostly to himself. Gary thinks he should be offended, or start a brawl or something now that Carragher has finally dared to actually laugh at him.

Then he turns around though, just as the kettle is beginning to whistle and asks Gary if he wants any. “I have proper cream and biscuits too.” he says with a crooked smile that only serves to accentuate his cheek bones further and Gary just--

He swallows. Biscuits. Cream. In two minutes it’s going to smell heavenly in the room once the tea starts to brew.

“It is just tea, as you said, and from a Scouser, but.” Carragher smirks and it snaps Gary out of whatever weird reverie he was in. Carragher must exactly know the effect food and good tea has on Gary. He is probably enjoying this to no small degree, a Manc in his room, at his mercy.

“Yeah, it’s just tea. I’ll get some at dinner, thanks.” Gary says and ducks out of the room before he does something stupid like accept and share biscuits and tea with a Liverpool player.

This international break is starting to get to his head. He needs to be back in Manchester, where things make sense and loyalties are clear-cut, and soon.

*

“He has a full tea set?” Phil leans in with his elbows on the table and eyes wide with interest. “Could we steal it, because let me tell you I could kill for some well made Earl Grey right now.”

“We’d be borrowing, not stealing,” Paul interjects. “He needn’t even know.” 

Gary buries his head in his hands. His friends are the worst enablers in history and besides one more day of training and then the game day and they fly home where they can have all the tea they want.

He feels he needs to change the subject before they all decide to throw a tea party in Gary’s room with Carragher’s supplies. They are dangerously close to it.

“So,” he asks David, who seems to be the one person actually socializing with his assigned roommate, “Southgate wants to be the England manager when he retires, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting there! So maybe two more chapters? And next chapter will contain some angst and then a lot of crack hehehe. Be prepared. This story is fairly finished in terms of the story board, but if there is anything you'd like to see tell me and I'll try and fit it in (or make it its own drabble!) :3


	4. Chapter 4

As much as he hates to admit it Gary is beginning to see the point of having a national team that sets the rivalries apart and talks to each other beyond the “it’s a bit stuffy today isn’t it”s and the “cover the back”s.

_And no, for the last time it’s not because Carragher is cute. He isn’t._

Gary simply has the best interest of the team in mind, as ungrateful as its bloody fans are. 

So on the last day of training before the game he decides to rope the Scousers in to the the banter the United contingent always keep going. By Scousers he does mean Carragher though, since his knowledge of the rest is still on the limited to nonexistent side.

“Oi Carragher,” he says with a grin in the middle of a passing exercise, “if you decide to score tomorrow make sure it’s not at the wrong end. As much as we appreciated the brace I don’t think England will.”

Carragher just--stops where he is, and the temperature on the pitch drops by thirty degrees. 

Gary realizes his mistake before anyone opens his mouth--and really what was he thinking?-- but it’s too late.

“What was that chant,” Owen says, eyes narrowed and voice icy, “oh--if the Nevilles can play for England so can I.”

Fowler smiles. It is devoid of any mirth and a bit scary, frankly. “Oi Neville, tell your boyfriend Becks that if he decides to kick someone tomorrow he should make sure it’s himself because as much as we love to see him get sent off in Liverpool I don’t think England does.”

For a brief moment Gary feels frozen on the spot right where he stands, a deer caught in the headlights. 

Boyfriend.

_Boyfriend. They know._

It only lasts a moment though -- it’s just words, he tells himself, they don’t know. There is no way they can know unless they see you freak out. 

Phil says “watch your mouth you wanker,” Paul is slowly but surely heading towards Fowler, and the last thing they need is a Scouse-Manc brawl.

He grips Paul’s arm sees Incey and Carragher do the same with their own mates. Then Shearer gets the ball and kicks it back and the exercise starts back up again, as though someone hit play on a VHS video. They don’t talk much, the hostility still palpable in the air, and as they run Gary doesn’t look at David for fear of what he may see there.

*

They play short five-versus-five games later in two groups. Carragher ends up in the other one and on the other side of the pitch Gary sees him get tackled and fall pretty hard. He gets up a moment later though and soon Gary is too busy in their own game to pay much attention.

Gary wants to say something after practice, apologize maybe, but Carragher doesn’t even stay long enough to shower. He just picks up his training top and storms out, before Gary can so much as say hi.

*

As Gary heads back to the room after dinner he half hopes to find it empty. Go to bed before Carragher even returns.

He finds Carragher making tea instead. He is still in his sweaty training kit and he doesn’t say anything to Gary. Doesn’t even look up.

There is no real reason to feel guilty towards Carragher, Gary knows. He did pretty much win them the game with his brace that time and they aren’t friends; they hadn’t even said ten words to each other off the pitch until a couple days ago.

“Can I have some tea too?” Gary asks. It seems like a harmless enough thing to say.

“Yeah.”

Gary sits on the edge of his bed and watches Carragher brew tea and take out a biscuit each.

“Look, I’m sorry for earlier today,” he settles for in the end as he stirs the milk into his tea.

“It’s fine. As you said.” Carragher’s voice is distant; clipped. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. We make do with what we have.”

Gary contemplates Carragher’s words. He did say those words and meant it. He doesn’t owe Carragher anything. 

They drink their tea in silence for a bit.

“You know, it’s not okay” Gary says eventually. He knows when he’s wrong and it shouldn’t matter what the wronged party’s team colors are. Gary is, or hopes to be at least, better than that, off the pitch. “I wanted to tease you, the way teammates do -- harmless banter -- and it came out wrong. I’m sorry, Carragher.”

Carragher looks up from his cup. “Are you, I-hate-all-Scousers Gary Neville, apologizing to me, Jamie Carragher of Bootle?” he asks, incredulous. The left side of his mouth curls into a one-sided smirk. 

Gary scoffs and gets up. He tried but this is taking it too far. There is a line.

But Carragher stops him with a hand on his arm. “Wait,” he says, “I’m sorry. I was just..not expecting that.” Gary looks down at him. His smirk is gone and his blue gray eyes are genuine as he continues. “And-- and I’m sorry for what Robbie said too. When he called Beckham your boyfriend--” Gary can feel his throat closing up again at the mention of the word. He clenches his jaw and tries very hard not to look away. Not to give himself away, regardless of what Carragher has to say next. It’s fine. He is straight. He has nothing to do with boyfriends. 

Carragher takes a deep breath before he continues. “I’m not saying he is your boyfriend, but. It wouldn’t be anyone’s business if he was.”

Gary blinks to make sure he’s heard Carragher right. It isn’t a topic he’s discussed with anyone except the couple of people who know him the best in the world, and he can feel himself blushing from head to toe. 

He sits back down.

A wave of relief --Carragher of all people, an essential stranger, a football player, telling him that it’s okay, _it wouldn’t be anyone’s business if he was_ \--clashes with the primal fear of _they know, they know, they know_ , irrational maybe but even more powerful for it, and Gary finds it a little hard to breathe. It’s too much, whatever this is.

Carragher puts a gentle hand on his knee from across the bed (it’s a miracle none of the tea spilled yet, really) and then changes the subject so deftly that all Gary can feel is gratitude.

“Must have been hard for Beckham, this past year. Some of the things people wrote and said… When of course he didn’t mean to…”

Gary hangs on to the new topic like a lifeline and pulls himself together. “Yeah,” he says, willing his voice not to break, “and the worst part is no one felt the horror of that night like him. He knows. He knows what he cost the team and nothing will ever make him forget that and people just. They don’t understand.”

“I can relate,” Jamie says with a small smile. “You don’t get to score many braces as a defender so each one matters but, that…We would have won had it not been for--” He trails off.

His eyes are really, quite beautiful and they are sad.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself mate, I’m pretty sure you would have still lost. We are Manchester United after all.” Gary grins and lame as it is hopes that his attempt at banter is more successful this time.

“Yeah and how many league titles does Manchester United have again? Or should we talk about European trophies because you didn’t have eighteen titles the last time I checked.” Carragher retorts, but he is smiling too and if he was being honest with himself (which Gary has no intention to be) it’s a sight that warms his heart. Just a tiny bit.

“It’s Carra by the way. None of my teammates call me Carragher.”

Teammates. 

They are teammates for as long as international break is in place. And it should be obvious but it feels like a revelation to Gary.

“There is two of us so Neville doesn’t really work either. I’m Gary. Nice to meet you I guess.”

“Is your dad’s name really Neville Neville?” Carragher, or rather Carra asks.

He sounds so eager Gary can’t help but break into fits of laughter. “Yes,” he laughs and wonders just how long Carra’s been waiting to ask that question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sentimental aside--is it just me or is there a semi-universal relief and gratitude and everything in between kind of deal when you are closeted and a kind stranger who has no reason to be kind says I see you and it's okay. You are okay.
> 
> Anyway uh here is to my straight friends and the kind strangers who made high school and even bits of college so much more bearable. Who saw me and didn't mind. Who stood by me even when it conflicted with their religious and moral beliefs :') --End of sentimental aside.
> 
> Well well now that we got all this angst out of the way the next chapter can finally finally be the crack I started the story board out with. It will be up at some point but don't ask me when.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie is in a bit of a bind. Gary tries to help (emphasis on tries).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Guess who is back from the dead. Finally, have all the shenanigans I've promised a long time ago.
> 
> **GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF (QUITE) MINOR INJURIES WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER**

Jamie is in a bit of a bind. A week ago he thought he’d go to the national team, train hard, maybe get his debut and either way Liverpool--home--would be waiting with open arms when he returns. Simple.

He would have howled with laughter if someone took him aside and said _listen, a week from now you will actually be standing in the bathroom trying to operate a handheld shower handle while not moving one arm at all, your shoulder practically killing you and oh did I say you’ve just left your Manc roommate (whom you are lusting after a little) in the room following some intense bonding._

Actually no, Jamie would have rightfully _punched_ the person who came up with such a ridiculous proposition instead, for throwing in the bit about the Manc alone.

And yet here he is, in the bathtub in some flimsy hotel, trying to keep his mind on the song he is humming, Gary Neville probably sprawled on a bed in his PJs just on the other side of the door. Oh, and--and Gary Neville who happens to be almost certainly interested in men. Though maybe not in Jamie, given his earlier freakout over his scars. Just splendid.

He focuses back on the song, turns on the water and raises the shower handle with his good arm, trying to keep his injured one as still as possible. Just as he’s almost made it all the way over his head though the water turns ice cold. He winces on reflex and makes to turn away, which leads to (i) him jerking his right shoulder back, (ii) an immediate bolt of pain that shoots through the said shoulder, and (iii) various shower objects clattering to the ground with an orchestra of loud _clang!_ s. Someone maybe knocks on the door. Jamie is too busy cussing in response to all three items to notice.

When he’s settled down there is another knock, this time unmissable, and an annoying Manc accent muffled by the door.

“Carra? You alright?”

Jamie draws in a breath and answers _yeah I’m fine_ , in as even a voice as he can manage. The bastard doesn’t buy any of it.

“You sure about that? You don’t sound all that fine.”

Jamie closes his eyes. Tries to gather the pieces of his mind together. Later he’ll wonder what on earth made him yell _wait a moment_ and open the door in a towel. Sheer weariness, maybe.

Neville--Gary--takes one look at him--and Jamie can see, he is pretty sure he isn’t imagining the appreciative gaze that tries not to linger too much on one part of his body--and whistles when his eyes reach the angry purple bruise on Jamie’s collar bone.

“Mate,” Gary says perceptively, “that doesn’t look good.”

Jamie bites back on the urge to snark out a well deserved _you don’t say?_ at him and goes with _it’s not as bad as it looks_ instead.

“You didn’t get that seen to.” Gary continues, his brows drawn together in a frown, his analysis on point as ever.

“Don’t be daft. Coach said I would play tomorrow and I’ll be damned before I give that shot away.” He stops then, coming to his senses, and his shoulder throbs once with the knowledge of much he’s revealed, to an essential stranger and a Manc at that too. A cup of tea and a tentative acknowledgement of teammates suddenly seems too little, too flimsy of a bond. What if Gary freaks out? What if he gets betrayed by his true nature and calls one of the coaches or the manager on him? You can never be sure with Mancs.

Gary’s (not unattractive) mouth sets in a thin line. Jamie tries to ascertain the chances of his imminent doom but he looks thoughtful more than anything. 

“Your debut.”

“Will you fucking stop stating the obvious,” Jamie retorts, a little too sharply. It’s just, all he wants is to be clean, find a painkiller and crash in bed. Standing dripping here at the door of the bathroom and listening to Gary enumerate well-established facts isn’t particularly helping with any of those goals. “Just go back inside alright, I’ll be fine.”

Gary does not do as he is told (no surprise there), he just stands where he is and--offers to help (wait, what?) “It’s the blood shower handle isn’t it,” he says not quite meeting Jamie’s eye. “The thing is a bitch to operate even with two good arms.”

Jamie’s mouth potentially hangs open a little, as he tries to process what he heard. Gary’s dead on about the shower handle, of course, but-- “Teammates,” Gary continues, raising his eyes now to meet Jamie’s, an edge of determination to his voice like he is trying to convince himself as much as Jamie. “We won’t mention it in the morning. Just. One question.”

Right. Jamie silently nods for him to continue, still a bit too shocked at the turn of events.

“Is it worth it for the national team? Playing through injury?”

That is a non-trivial question, and one Jamie’s considered too. What if he falls on his shoulder tomorrow and makes it worse? What if he has to miss weeks of club football? It’s his debut though, he knows he can play without jeopardizing the rest of the team and it’s something worth fighting for.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

“Alright then,” Gary says, “let’s draw you a bath, shall we?”

*

And so they do. Gary gets the water going; Jamie ducks into the bedroom to put his boxers back on and then they stand there in the bathroom in silence, waiting for the tub to fill, a little too stunned at what they are doing.

 _The fuck are you doing?_ the more rational part of his mind—the part he ignores quite often—pipes up. Next to him Gary is checking the water temperature in the near full tub, a sense of purpose to his every action. He is actually going to help Jamie with a bath.

“Right then,” Gary says with one final check once the tub is full and covered in soapy bubbles. “Why don’t you settle and I’ll come in a bit.” With that he practically ducks out the bathroom without a second look.

The water feels good on his skin and instantly starts to work away at his tense shoulders against his will. Jamie closes his eyes and sighs, lets himself exist only in the moment surrounded by nothing but warmth on every side. Gary is a question mark in the back of his mind, this man who only used to briefly enter his field of consciousness as someone to defeat twice a year, the enemy. Who is meticulous and scared and cares for cereal more than any person should.

Who comes back despite Jamie’s doubts and stands towering above him with a sponge in hand. 

There is an awkward space between the edge of the sink counter and the head of the bathtub, a little hard to get to, and serving no apparent purpose. (Except of course it seems perfect for their purpose, ideal for a slim man to slip in and assist a slightly injured teammate take a bath.)

Gary squeezes in there and lathers his back first. The sponge is firm under his hand but not enough to hurt and very gentle around his right shoulder. They don’t talk. Jamie looks straight ahead and doesn’t think about how nice it feels. Doesn’t linger on how he wants to lean into the touch, wants Gary’s hands on him, wants them to explore every inch of his body, and to explore his in return.

Gary takes the shampoo bottle and puts some on his hand. He runs his hands through Jamie’s short hair, massaging Jamie’s scalp. Jamie lets out a content breath, soft, one he didn’t realize he was holding. He is twenty-one, a grown man and he has always been proud of how well he can take care of himself, a tough lad, hard to break. And he is also on the cusp of his international debut, he has been through the wringer during the day and Gary’s hands are so nice as they work through his hair. “Your hair’s so soft,” Gary murmurs behind him, barely above a whisper, yet so loud to Jamie in the silence of the room. And there is something to it—something to the reverence in Gary’s voice, the honesty of the admission, that draws Jamie in. Mesmerized, Jamie leans his head back towards the voice. Gary doesn’t seem to be aware of it. Doesn’t seem aware that he said anything. He isn’t quite looking at where his fingers are either, his eyes fixed somewhere on the far wall. 

Jamie sees his fingers work their way up, realizes what they are moving _towards_ , almost in slow motion. He needs to tilt his head back down or move away because Gary isn’t looking but he is slow and there is no time and--

Gary pokes him right in the eye with a soapy finger.

Jamie’s eye catches on fire. The pain is immediate, the jab and the soap joining forces and all Jamie wants is to get away, to make it stop. He gasps. His elbow flies back on instinct and he doesn’t have the time to think on where or who it might land on.

There is a loud yelp behind him.

More specifically, there is a loud yelp behind him as his elbow catches Gary quite hard in the ribs and then Gary is clattering to the ground having lost his balance on the wet tile floor.

Jamie turns around just in time to see Gary hit his head on the edge of the counter on his way down.

“Fuck!” Gary yells on the floor, out of surprise and pain. Blood is already dripping down the side of his face from the gash on his temple.

Jamie squints at him with one eye, now standing in the tub, trying to ignore the burning in the other, “Fuck, Gary are you—are you alright?” 

“Ow fuck!” Gary shouts again and winces as one of his (still quite soapy) hands makes contact with the wound. “Do I look alright? Why did you have to go and do that for, you twat?”  
Jamie is already out of the bathtub, rinsing his hands in the sink, caught between concern and exasperation.

“Do you mean the part where you jabbed me in the eye?” he yells back bitterly, as he hands the first hand towel he can find to Gary.

Gary takes the towel and presses it to his temple. “And why was your eye where your hair supposed to be, hmm?”

Jamie bends over the sink and washes his eye with his good hand, feeling like a true invalid between it and the shoulder. “Do you hear yourself?” he says, “if you boody looked where your hands were going, instead of talking about how soft my hair was—“

“I said that out loud.” Jamie stops. On the floor Gary is dead serious, his face grave like a tombstone at the realization. Jamie crosses his arms, opens his mouth to say something. But looking at Gary, at how absolutely mortified he is, and at his sorry state in the mirror all Jamie can do is to laugh all of a sudden. It starts out as a chuckle but soon his body is shaking with waves of laughter, unable to stop.

Gary regards him for a moment with fury, but soon he joins in too. Jamie rests against the counter to keep upright. Gary throws his head back against the tile wall, tears in his eyes. The bathroom roars with their laughter.

He offers Gary his left hand with a grin once they’ve calmed down to pull him up. Gary takes it and grins right back. Speak of a bonding experience.

“You are still all soapy,” Gary points out and Jamie realizes that yes, he is standing quite naked and his hair white and plastered with shampoo with one eye completely bloodshot. 

“Well at least you aren’t going around making faces at my scars this time, so” Jamie replies, wiping away at the tears in his eyes. It comes out a little sharper than he intends to be. Gary stops laughing.

“No, mate, trust me I was not making faces at your scars—“ he says, dead serious all of a sudden, “you are—you are—“

Jamie has a sense he will say something like _gorgeous_ and feels a hot flush come over him but they get interrupted by the aggressive knocking on their door before he can.

****

Gary raises his eyebrows to say _who can it be at this hour?_ Jamie wraps the towel around his waist again and they file out the bathroom door, curious.

Gary opens the door. Beckham stands on the other side. “Gaz, I heard quite a commotion and I just wanted to—“ Beckham stops mid-sentence, and his mouth hangs open. Jamie watches his eyes widen to a comical degree as he takes in the sight inside the room, Gary with the towel still pressed to his temple and shit—there is blood on his shirt too. “Gaz.” Beckham gasps just as his eyes move on to Jamie.

Jamie who is standing right next to Gary. Jamie who has a large bruise blossoming on his collar bone. Jamie who very publicly offered to fight Gary (among ever other Manc) in Northwest derbies.

Beckham’s eyes narrow to slits, his mouth suddenly a paper thin line, fury burning in his no doubt blonde and pretty soul. “It’s not what it looks like—“ Jamie starts, because he can see just where Beckham is going with it but once again he’s too late.

Beckham lunges at him with frightening speed. “There is a _Becks! No!_ in the background, presumably from Gary but Beckham doesn’t hear, he is too busy tackling Jamie to the ground. They crash on the floor with a thud and a bolt of pain shoots up Jamie’s shoulder, red hot. But Beckham seems to have no intention of stopping and Jamie has to duck right away, to avoid a punch. He squirms to free himself from where Beckham has him pinned down and pushes back to turn them around.

There is another, _no Becks! stop!_ and soon Gary’s joined the party on the floor too, throwing his body between the two of them, trying to pry Beckham away. Beckham doesn’t go easy, shouting and trying to swing punches at Jamie even as Gary manages to hold pull him away.

Just before he does though—there is a moment, a split second where there is nothing standing between Jamie’s left hand and Beckham. Jamie’s right shoulder is on fire. He’s been attacked with no warning and adrenaline is coursing through his veins unchecked. His hand curls into a fist at his side without a conscious command from his mind and flies forward. Beckham, his pretty nose is right there and Jamie is in pain and just—

There. Perfect.

Beckham makes a pained yelp. Jamie pulls himself free and throws himself against the far wall, panting. Something delicious swirls in his stomach at the sight of Beckham’s bloodied nose. Revenge.

“Listen, listen,” Gary is saying, a real urgency to his voice as he holds his friend back. “It isn’t what you think okay? I slipped. Carra was trying to help. He was trying to help Becks. I slipped.” He repeats the same words over and over again, his hands gripping Beckham’s arms tight until Beckham calms down, and then Gary throws himself to the side too, spent. Jamie sees that the gash on his temple has started bleeding again. Next to Gary, Beckham seems fascinated with his bloody nose and grabs a t-shirt (Jamie’s favorite) from the floor to press against it.

“Ow, mate” Jamie says from where he sits, ruing the loss of a favorite piece of clothing, “you had to pick that one did you?” but he doesn’t press the issue seeing as Beckham looks like he wouldn’t mind another round of fighting.

Eventually they will have to talk to someone, Alan and probably the gaffer too, because Gary needs stitches, someone needs to check him for a concussion, and whatever possibility Jamie had of playing through injury tomorrow it’s gone to below zero now. 

Not yet though. For now they sit on the floor for in silence, leaning against the beds and the wall, and try to catch their breath. Jamie remembers to get up and close the door at some point. Beckham offers him an apology. “Sorry about your nose,” Jamie replies, hoping it doesn’t sound too fake. 

From where he’s sat against the bed, Gary offers him a smile, a silent apology an _are you alright_ and _what even is this?_ all baked into one. Jamie smiles back, despite his throbbing shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is today the day someone finally says enough and pushes me off HMS Carraville? Stay tuned for the answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Alan has just gone to sleep when he gets a call from Gary Neville, asking whether he’d like to come over to their room maybe. “Bit late for a social call, isn’t it?” Alan answers, trying not to sound too gruff.

“It is,” Gary tells him from the other end of the line, his voice cautious, “but we need you...as the captain. It’s a rather delicate matter and hard to explain over the phone.”

“Please tell me you aren’t calling about a broken bone after what went down with Carragher in training.”

“No,” Gary answers a little too quickly, a little too sharply, “no broken bones.”

Alan hangs up the phone and groans. He knew this idea of rooming with your rivals was bollocks from the moment he laid his eyes on that accursed board and now, he’s pretty sure that the Scousers and Mancs have declared out and out war and he, as the captain, is the one who gets dragged from depths of his sleep over it. 

He knocks on the Carragher-Neville door with dread.

“Alan!” Carra says with a grin Alan doesn’t buy for a second, “come in please.”

And sure enough. Sure enough there is Gary Neville perched on the edge of the couch, pressing a towel to his temple--he smiles sweetly and greets Alan from where he is sitting--and Beckham is busy trying to stop a nosebleed on the side of the bed. He looks over at Carra, surprised at the lack of at least a black eye and yep, Carragher is cradling his right arm gingerly to his side too.

Alan sighs. No one told him that the responsibilities that came with the armband would include this. It’s too bloody late anyway and he is too sleepy.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Gary offers from the couch, “but it’s a long story.”

*

Fifteen minutes later they are sitting in the same room but with the addition of the gaffer and going through the same events for again, Keegan all bushy eyebrows and a very unimpressed set to the thin line of his mouth.

“So,” Carra is saying, starting at the beginning. “Gary poked at my eye--accidentally; I jabbed him in the ribs--accidentally and only on instinct, and then he slipped and hit his head.” 

Next to him, Gary nods in agreement. 

“Why were you in the bathroom together with Gary, son?” the gaffer asks, rather incredulous.

This time it’s Gary who answers. “Right. I was um helping him take a bath.”

“Helping him take a bath,” Keegan echoes right back, hearing the words but not comprehending.

“Right. He er--injured his shoulder during training.”

“Absolutely not Gary’s fault, that.” Carra chimes in. “Happened during the five-a-sides.”

Alan leans back in his seat and decides that this is rather enjoyable on the second run through when he no longer needs to be the responsible adult in the room. It feels like he’s been teleported to the set of some absurdist sitcom even, watching the duo give an account of why Jamie proceeded to hide his injury from the physios.

“You gotta understand it was his debut on the line,” Gary is saying, “Minor injury like that--I would have done the same in a heartbeat--”

Keegan finishes Gary’s sentence. “So you did what any good teammate do, agreed to keep it under wraps and offered to wash his hair--which you’d naturally do for a Scouser you can’t so much as stand, is that so?”

“Well--” Gary says again, his eyes quickly darting to Carragher. “He is alright in small doses, I suppose.”

“Why thank you Gary.” 

They are trying not to look at each other and there are matching half-smiles across their lips, hesitant fragile things that threaten to blossom in full in any moment. Keegan’s eyes dart between the two of them and then lands on Alan, searching for an answer. Alan shakes his head in a well established motion of _damned if I know_. Eventually when no other explanation seems to be forthcoming Keegan sighs and moves on.

“Okay. Where does David come in then?”

Gary draws in a sharp breath. Carra touches his arm ever so slightly to signal that he’s got this, like you would do with a dear friend. 

“Well there was no reason Beckham wouldn’t assume the worst when he saw Gary bleeding and me standing right there next to him, was there? Not after the commotion we made. He was just looking after for his friend is all.”

“Yeah, I thought he’d hurt Gaz,” Beckham chimes in. “And the bloody nose, absolutely self-defense. Can’t fault Carra for that when I was lunging at him blindly.”

“Boss,” Alan says, gesturing at the two Mancs and a Scouser corroborating each others’ stories with utmost comradery. There is perhaps with a bit more glee in his voice than the situation warrants, but he can’t help it. It’s just so funny. “I think we can commend the lads for cutting right through club rivalries, don’t you think? A true example of one nation one team.” 

He has to bite on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. Keegan gives him what can only be described as a death stare. It’s totally worth it. Maybe, he decides, it was worth being dragged out of his bed after all as the gaffer visibly struggles with comprehending the end result of his new initiative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, only a happy epilogue-ish chapter left to tie loose ends. Thanks for sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very much so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading friends! Come find me on [tumblr](https://blindbatalex.tumblr.com/) where I meticulously post tweets from Carra's twitter account and cry over these two idiots 24/7.


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